The dance of anxious thoughts and scattered puzzle pieces
by Macarons and Muffins
Summary: Kate Bales has never been what anyone would call normal. And she never expects that anyone will understand, how she feels out of step, how in a crowded room she can still feel intensely lonely. But someone else does. EXTREMELY belated giftic for SlenderPanda597, for winning 'The London quiz' on tumblr.


**This is a (very, very, very, _very_ late) gift fic for SlenderPanda597 as their prize for winning a competition I posted on tumblr! I really enjoyed writing this, though, so thank you so much, Sev! :)And I am so super sorry that this is so late, I feel like I planned to start writing this a good couple of months ago, which is an example of how much I suck that it's just going up now. Oops.**

 **I don't own Jam and Jerusalem.**

* * *

Kate has never been what anyone would call... Normal. She doesn't know why- no one is, after all, "normal". She sees Tash, Tash with her dreads and homemade clothes, Rosie who is sweet when she is not Margaret but who hands around cheese and steals things, Eileen who is obsessive to say the least. And yet, for some bizarre reason, they are accepted. Maybe not wholly, but people excuse their antics, because that is just Tash, that's good old Rosie, that's typical Eileen, and that's that, sorted out, let's have a cup of tea. It's a simple matter, and she agrees with it, and yet Kate doesn't understand why the others won't just accept her for who she is, either.

Because, for some inexplicable reason, she doesn't quite fit. Like a piece from some other puzzle- the same colour, but not quite the same cut to click with the others and form a complete picture. And it has been that way her entire life. She's too emphatic about things, too giggly at times. She lets her mouth go and chatters for just a little too long until everyone else is fed up with her. She makes assumptions about people and how they are feeling, acts on them, and then is left to curl inward awkwardly when she's wrong and ends up causing offence. And she's obstinate, too; perhaps not in quite the stiff way Eileen is, but Kate is never one to back down in the slightest- she clings on to what she can, even if she is quivering and uncomfortable as she does. And ends up acting rashly if things don't go according to plan.

To put it simply, Kate Bales annoys other people. Even as a girl in school, the way she would snitch on other students, blurt out answers in class, stare anxiously and tug at her cardigan sleeves until they were ragged- people didn't want to be around her. And she didn't try, because what was the point? She tries now, but Kate wonders if it is too late.

* * *

Things bother her more than they bother other people. She dissolves into hysterics when things are out of order, when something seems just a few degrees off. When shopping, if there is the wrong brand or something is absent, she won't buy it- she gets jittery, uncomfortable, like an itch that builds up in her hands. When she steps into a room filled with people she doesn't know, her stomach swoops and curdles and she laughs, awkwardly, and tries to fill the distance between them with squirrel chatter and scattered babble that loops in different directions, her hands clenching and fiddling with the hems of her sleeves until everyone is convinced that she is utterly irritating and strange.

She sees a doctor out of town, so that no one can see her in the waiting room, because if she's in the waiting room she knows that she'll start chattering and asking them their business and her mouth will spill everything whether she wants to or not to try and seem social even though she knows it is the opposite, so at least out of town she'll never see anyone else again. The doctor attends to her, and he asks what is wrong. But then she worries and she ends up laughing shrilly and talking condescendingly to him as if he is the patient, telling him she can see his is overtired and that he can tell her whatever he needs to and speaks for him. But he's trained because he sees the way her eyes flit about and how she chatters almost hysterically and giggles a lot. How her fingernails are chewed down to nubs and she digs the remains into her palms.

He tells Kate that he's not a psychologist, but he is almost certain she has social anxiety disorder. He tells her that her anxiety seems quite severe, that she really should consider seeing someone who specialises in that area. Kate giggles incessantly and corrects him, because of course she doesn't, of _course_. She talks to him like he's a child who's made a mistake on the text, and doesn't take the referral because she can't. She can't accept that she officially has something that sets her apart from other people.

* * *

She's never going to get married, except she does because for some reason he wants her- well, not her for herself, but he wants her for a wife- and that's okay, because Kate doesn't want to be alone, and because she's scared she'll never get that chance. But she doesn't like him much and he shouts at her when she dithers and panics, or grumbles and slopes into the room with a beer. But when he dies she is sad because it's another reason for her to be alone.

The women's grieving group was supposed to be an outlet and help her, but it doesn't. Even though she knows it isn't helping her in any of the ways it should, Kate keeps attending stubbornly, because she's signed up for at least a year, and she can't leave after just a few months. She still mourns her husband's death, even though it's been a jumble of years since then and she doesn't even remember why she married him in the first place. Or maybe she does, and that reason bothers her even more; she didn't want to be lonely. Even with the others in the group, though, Kate doesn't fit. Maybe it is the way she corrects them on the way they are not following the five steps of grief that are printed clearly on the pamphlets, maybe it is that she tells those who have been in the stage of "despair" for too long that they need to move to the next official part. Never mind that she has burned through several "incorrect phases" herself- she wants to make sure that everyone goes according to the booklets.  
She cries. A lot. Because she sticks on "guilt" and that means she isn't progressing correctly, that means that she's not doing it the proper way. It means one other thing to stop her being normal. And Kate wonders if she should resign herself to never being accepted, never being ordinary.

* * *

Kate is not an idiot, no matter how much she appears that way with her dithering and out of context giggles. She knows the women in the guild don't like her very much. Sal is accomodating, but Kate can see the stony look on the woman's face when she pops round with a thick stack of brochures and hastily made fruitcake. She pretends not to notice. She masks her unease with transparent laughs and flyaway comments that make no sense. She's not exactly happy, but at least she has more of a place, now. Because no one in the guild is perfect, at least. Eileen is a perfectionist in the extreme, Caroline is so caught up in her own importance that she doesn't realise she frequently embarrasses herself by making accidental obscene comments, Rosie is a lovely woman but she's _Rosie_ and she is utterly different and always will be, Sal is full of her own self importance. Susie seems 'normal' but they all know that there's something about her (or, rather, the way she glances at Caroline) that would cause scandalous gossip to flood through the small-minded town in seconds. So Kate, at least, has other 'misfits'. And clatterford is full of them, of course.

But, still. For some reason, despite the unique quirks of the others, she still feels wrong. Like she is the odd one out, and is always destined to be. Even in the guild, when they pair off for activities, she's the one left over to work on her own, because everyone else has someone they are desperate to hang around with. Eileen shows a noticeable dislike for Kate on several occasions, which does not improve matters. And Kate feels that she must be the loneliest person in the village.

Except. There's someone else who's utterly alone and singled out, as well.

* * *

She does not understand him. He skulks around town, looking down on everyone, making snide comments and snapping at his congregation in church. But she can see, underneath it all, a strange drive for acceptance.

He hates the inner workings of the town as much as she does, she realises. But he just expresses it in a very different way. He does not try to blend in, to act chipper and yet still stand out. Instead, he hides in the shadows. He seeks solace in God, but even that is torn from him almost constantly, by Rosie bursting into the church with some shenanigan up her sleeve, usually involving cheese.

Kate considers if he's grieving. He certainly has the melancholy, brooding air of someone who does. And so she shows up to the church, a poorly made banana loaf tucked in her bag, half hidden by the collection of grieving group pamphlets that she totes along. She awkwardly peeps into the back room, simpering and giggling at him. But no sooner have the words " _I'm from the local grieving group, just doing a checkup..._ " left her mouth, mangled by her nerves and scattered titters, then he gives her a look that juxtaposes his profession in the church, full of such intense dislike and frostiness that it would freeze over hell.

"No," he snaps, voice harsh. "Can't you see I'm praying, you stupid woman?"

Kate recoils inside; outside, she takes a step forward, bouncing from one foot to the other a little to dispel her anxious energy.

"Do you need to talk about anything?" she coos at him, her standard response.

She's used to eyerolls, huffs and dismissals at this statement. But she is surprised by the earful of sharp, snide words thrown her way. He seethes about the citizens of Clatterford, how they are all imbeciles, how none of them allow him any peace, and the worst of all are that godforsaken _women's guild_ , who think they run the place...

She offers him the Banana loaf tentatively. He asks her just why she thinks offering him a " _bloody stale cake_ " will make him feel better.

She giggles and agrees and apologises in an endless loop as she backs out.

Kate doesn't go back to the church for a while.

* * *

But something happens.

In the pub, he sits and does a poor job of "socialising" with James Vine. He makes a snide remark; her slim grip on tact lets go, and she informs him that he's ' _not very nice for a Vicar_ '.

And he responds, sarcastically, of course. But either Kate is growing immune to Hillary's venom, or he is just a sliver less irritated than usual.

Maybe.

 _Maybe not_.

Kate lost her faith before she was old enough to really understand the concept, her beliefs in goodness and happiness torn away from her at a severely young age. But that Easter, she finds herself at church, because there is a strange curiosity inside her that cannot be satiated.

It is strange. Easter Sunday is one of those few days in the year where the congregation seem more invested in the sermon, and less in the biscuits carted down the aisle between the pews. And he announces that he is risen, that the stone has been rolled from the tomb. And it is fascinating to Kate.

Because he looks like, for once, he is actually enjoying himself. He has an audience, depending on each word that leaves his mouth. He is appreciated, even if just this one day a year. And she sees just a slight change in his disposition. And she likes that she sees it.

* * *

When Kate sees him hunched on the hillside, looking exhausted and utterly fed up with the world, she doesn't know how to feel. The grieving group rules instilled in her tell her that she should force ' _strategies_ ' on him, mindfulness exercises and games to ' _lift his mind and improve his thinking patterns!_ ' as the pamphlets and website boast. But for what seems like the first time in her life, Kate disregards those set rules.

She clambers up the steep bend of the hill towards him, and he still scowls at her, making it clear that her presence is not appreciated. And when she slips, she is sure that he will let her fall, tumble down and injure herself. After all, his cynical disposition does not make him the kind of person who would see the point in 'helping' someone, she thinks.

Except he does. He takes her arm and helps her up, and she crouches on the rock beside him. She can feel the tension and discomfort rolling off him, but she can feel something else, as well. For once in her life, in all her years of claiming to "know" how other people are feeling despite their protests, Kate's intuition is not wrong. She can see it in his stance, in the set of his jaw, and his eyes. She can sense it, recognise the symptoms, because it is something that she sees each morning when she looks in the mirror, that she tries her hardest to conceal behind a mask of exaggerated bubbliness.

He is lonely. Just like she is. Not lonely in the sense that he needs to be around others, but a bone-deep feeling, so that even when he is in a room full of people, he feels out of step with them.

And Kate understands. So when she speaks to him, for once, her voice does not waver with anxious giggles and counselling tips. And when he replies, for once, his voice does not bite with sarcasm and dry remarks.

She can see deeper, now, into his soul as she talks to him. She sees a man who tries his hardest, but who is never taken seriously, is made into a mockery- so he gives up, he withdraws and produces a bitter shell to the rest of the world. In turn, she shows him the girl who has never fit in and whose anxiety turns her into a giggling, awkward mess in the best of situations. And Kate laughs, a genuine laugh, not a nerve-induced giggle. When the bitter wind of the hillside whispers across her back and makes her shiver, he slips his coat off and drapes it over her shoulders. It is large, and warm, and as she sinks into it, it feels almost like an embrace.

The relief of it all is too much. It blocks out everything else- the vague reminder that she should be with the guild, aiding them set up for Eileen's current endeavour. It blocks out the knowledge that her uniform skirt will most likely be damaged, having scraped across the rock at one point; that her issued hat has been carried off somewhere else by the wind, that her shoes are caked with mud. Because she is showing herself, her _true_ self, to someone. And this someone is not turning her away.

When she looks into his eyes, she can see the same relief there, mirrored like her own.

He kisses her. And Kate dares to hope that maybe, this time things will not spiral downwards until she is left in a worse state than before.

* * *

They're two pieces from separate puzzles, but they click together perfectly.

* * *

 **Uh. Well. This sucked. I'm sorry.**


End file.
